


Gravity Won't Get You High

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As both his attending physician and partner, McCoy worries constantly about Jim's stress level. Over time, he discovers an interesting way to help him cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravity Won't Get You High

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "sensory deprivation" prompt at the km_anthology community on LiveJournal.

It wasn't easy being Jim Kirk. Of that, Leonard McCoy was absolutely sure. Between hull breaches, away-missions-turned-bloodbaths and the occasional foreign dignitary who turned out to be a psychopath, picking off members of Jim's crew as though they were insignificant motes of dust...yeah, the stress could get bad. Real bad.

Often, the kid would show up in their quarters much later than expected, delayed by an explosion in engineering or a last-minute conference. Maybe he was straining over the last few lines of a letter to a dead ensign's family, typing furiously and then backtracking, again and again—explaining just what had happened to their pride and joy out here in the vast reaches of the black, where new obstacles and evils presented themselves to a talented yet vulnerable crew every day—trying to get those terrible words just right.

Jim would sit down on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched and breath unsteady and McCoy would pretend he was asleep until he couldn't stand the sight of him like that anymore. Then he'd say, "Come to bed, Jim," and Jim would sigh, like McCoy was asking so much of him to even consider sleep. But he would do it, for McCoy.

McCoy's own mother once told him that he felt too much. And as soon as he was old enough to drink, he'd found a way to take care of _that_ little personality quirk. He'd never come across anyone else who was like that, until he met Jim. And Jim rarely even turned to a bottle once they set out into space—not that McCoy would let him. He just let it all come, let it all rest squarely on those strong, broad shoulders, handed down from one captain to another.

Most days, McCoy could ignore it; tell himself that it just came with the territory. Other days, it was like grim hell to watch.

The first time they had shore leave, McCoy did a little research in advance. When the day to dock finally came, he found himself on a completely deserted ship, save for the usual suspects who had trouble being pulled away from their work. One of those folks was Jim, holed up in his office as usual, plugging away at something that McCoy was sure could wait a week or so. He strolled in and let out an audible sigh to get the kid's attention.

"Bones, can it wait?" he asked without looking up. "I've got the last of this paperwork to do, and—"

"Jim, we're on shore leave." McCoy approached the desk, placing his hand over the screen of the PADD Jim held. "There's a swank hotel room with our name on it and check-in time is 1600."

Jim sniffed and squinted, looking around at the work splayed all over his desk. He sighed. "All right, fine. Just let me gather up what's left, and—"

"No gathering. No _work_ on _shore leave_ , Jim. I swear to god, it was like pulling goddamn teeth to get you to lift a finger all through the academy, and now wild horses couldn't tear you away from this stuff."

"That was different, Bones. I have responsibilities now. People rely on me."

McCoy's eyebrow shot up. "And no one relied on you before?" Jim licked his lips and squinted up at him.

"Not really, no."

Well, what could he say to that? Not much. So McCoy just exhaled and dug out his own PADD, pulling something up on his calendar and holding it out for Jim to see. "I scheduled this for us," he said, and Jim peered at the screen with a faint laugh.

"An appointment at a day spa?" He laughed again, a bit louder. "You're kidding, right? Are we going to get matching seaweed wraps and take Malvernian mud baths?"

"It's a place where people go to relax. And _you_ , Captain Insanity, need to relax." He put the PADD back into his bag. "Christine couldn't rave enough about it."

"I'm relaxed," Jim replied, pouting. McCoy sighed and walked around the desk, hauling Jim to his feet and swatting the PADD out of his hand. "Hey, I need that!" he protested.

"What you _need_ is a swift kick in the derrière. Come on, now, before we lose our hotel reservation."

"I thought I needed to relax; a swift kick doesn't sound so relaxing," Jim argued, though he let McCoy yank him out of his office and back to their quarters to pack.

What McCoy didn't tell Jim was that he'd signed him up for the works, including a good two hours in a sensory deprivation flotation tank. When Jim realized what was in for him a few days later at the spa, standing there in nothing but a pair of Starfleet regulation swim trunks, he turned on McCoy faster than one could even _say_ "sensory deprivation."

"No, Bones, I'm not—what the fuck? You signed me _up_ for this? Two hours in a tank full of water? What if I drown?"

"The tank has salts in it to keep you afloat, Jim. From..." He lifted the old-fashioned pamphlet up to read the description. "Rysenka II."

"I don't _care_ where they're from, Bones. You're trying to take over the ship, aren't you? This is mutiny."

"Like I really want to be in charge of that overblown sardine can, swashbuckling with space goblins. That's your job, not mine." McCoy smirked and rubbed at the knots in Jim's shoulders, trying to get him to stop huffing and puffing. "Just try it, Jim. You're all tense and wound up from almost a year of nonstop outer space adventures. Would it kill you to float in a tank for two hours and just have some time to yourself?"

"Maybe," Jim muttered. "And she's not a sardine can, damn it."

"Go on," he said, kissing Jim's cheek. "I'm gonna go have a mud bath and I'll be right there when you get out."

"But I wanted a mud bath!" Jim groused, even as the pretty blond attendant led him away. McCoy smirked and rolled his eyes. He'd heard good things about those flotation tanks and he was willing to bet Jim would be whistling a different tune when it was all said and done.

Two hours later, McCoy's skin was feeling softer than he could ever remember. He wrapped a robe around himself as he went to the deprivation room, where they were about to open up Jim's tank. When they did, McCoy was nearly taken aback by the sight of Jim floating peacefully in the water, not a trace of a worry line on his face, his soft pink lips slightly parted.

Oh, yeah—and there was a certain part of him that wasn't _quite_ as relaxed as the rest, causing an unmistakable tent in his trunks.

"Don't worry," the blond attendant from earlier whispered, noticing the direction of McCoy's stare. "That happens a lot."

"Uh-huh. Yeah, um...makes sense."

McCoy watched avidly as the sweet-faced attendants carefully and gently guided a disoriented Jim out of the tank, holding him upright as he stumbled a bit, searching for his footing. When he looked up at McCoy, his eyes were clearer than he could ever remember seeing them.

"You were right," Jim murmured, still sounding foggy. "That was intense."

McCoy smiled faintly to him, trying not to stare directly at the very pronounced outline of Jim's cock through his trunks. "Glad you liked it, kid."

"Can we go back to the hotel?" Jim asked, pressing his face into McCoy's neck. "To, like...fuck and sleep?"

"'Course," McCoy said, wrapping an arm around him and leading him to the locker room. He couldn't even remember the last time Jim had specifically requested sleep.

When they got back to the room and into bed, it only took a few lazy kisses and slow strokes of Jim's length before he was shuddering and coming across McCoy's palm. Not a minute later, he was half-asleep and nearly drooling on McCoy's shoulder. He should have been annoyed, but it was worth going without sex for one night to see to it that the kid got some much-needed rest.

The next morning, they ordered room service and Jim idly mentioned returning to the spa one more time before they left the planet. The kid sure seemed to like that flotation tank. McCoy nodded and said he'd see what he could do

Not a few weeks later, McCoy found himself on the ass-backward end of an ass-backward dilemma—namely that the crew had to deliver a virus blocker to a planet at risk of total extinction, due to a spreading disease, when the ship was still recovering from a random attack by Klingons or some other evildoers that McCoy couldn't even remember. Their docking station had nearly been decimated and in the what-else-is-new department, the good-for-nothing transporter was now on the fritz, so they couldn't beam anyone on or off the ship. And while Scotty and Chekov and a bunch of brats from engineering were working on it, there was no way they'd get it functioning in time.

Just another day at the office.

"Why can't we just take a shuttle down there?" McCoy groaned, running a hand through his hair, his fingers clenching.

"It'll take too long," Jim replied. He was already on the move toward the nearest hatch, where ensigns were waiting with special suits, McCoy following behind reluctantly. "Starfleet sent a go-between shuttle already and it's gonna be here any minute. It's just the easiest thing to do an old-fashioned space walk and hand it over directly."

"Well, why do _I_ have to go?" McCoy grunted, racking his brain for any excuse not to do this. He _hated_ space walks. "Thought I was done with all this nonsense after the academy, for christ's sake. Was lucky I didn't puke into my suit."

"Yeah, and try not to do that this time, either." Jim paused and turned before they got to the hatch, looking McCoy in the eye. "You know the most about the virus blocker, so I need you to do it. But I'll be right there with you, I promise. I wouldn't send you out there alone. Okay?"

McCoy bit down on his tongue and nodded. "Yeah," he said gruffly. It was hard to be annoyed at the kid when he insisted on being so, well...captainly.

But if anyone said that space walks got easier or more fun over time, then he'd be a goddamned liar; McCoy was struggling just as much as he had during his training at the academy. It was awkward and _scary_ , just damn well _strolling around_ in space, and though he knew the laws of gravity like the back of his hand, it simply didn't feel natural, being out there. He longed for the solid floors of their shared quarters or better yet, the soft give of rich Georgia soil under his feet.

Jim, however, seemed to be enjoying it. If anything, he was a little quieter than usual. But McCoy had to do more of the talking anyway. They got to the shuttle, where he told the waiting officers everything he knew about the virus blocker before handing it over. They thanked him and Jim, salutes were tossed all around, and the shuttle was quickly on its way. McCoy sighed, turning as quickly as he could in the bulky get-up, eager to get back on the ship.

"Let's get a move on, before I really do puke," he grumbled. He looked up when Jim didn't answer, spying his face a few feet away and his blue eyes, wide and dilated. "Jim?" he asked. "You all right?"

Jim wasn't really moving so fast, though, and he seemed pretty out of it. McCoy hadn't seen Jim's eyes look that clear since—well, since the time at the spa, after his couple of hours in the deprivation tank.

Huh. Well, _that_ was interesting. Jim Kirk appeared to be getting off on his own damn weightlessness, floating off in his head to that same unknown, faraway place, where McCoy couldn't see or go himself.

"Jim," he repeated over the comm link, louder and firmer this time. "We gotta get back. Okay?"

"Ahh...y-yeah, Bones, I know."

Just to be sure Jim would actually move, McCoy reached out and grabbed his arm as best as he could with the gloves he wore, pulling him along, back to the hatch. Once they got onto the ship and were out of the suits, McCoy squeezed Jim's shoulder, taking notice of the persisting dilation of his pupils, as well as the stretch of his uniform's fabric around his groin.

"Lemme check you out in medical for a minute before you head back to your quarters," he said. Jim blinked and shook his head.

"I gotta get back to the bridge. Or, no...paperwork."

"It's not your shift and you're taking the rest of the day off, doctor's orders. Got it?" McCoy gave him a scowl and Jim finally nodded, allowing himself to be led to sickbay for an examination, suddenly a lot more docile than he ever normally was.

This time, back in their quarters, it only took about twenty seconds of McCoy's mouth on Jim's cock before he was coming, hard and heavy, down his waiting throat. Then, once again, the kid was out like a light. And he slept all the way through the night, for eight full hours, just as McCoy was always begging him to do.

Obviously, this was worth some contemplation on the doctor's part.

Of course, in space, there was rarely time for thorough contemplation regarding any matter. Hell, sometimes there wasn't even time to _blink_ before you had to go springing into action. And spring Jim always did, waving his phaser around and jumping headfirst into danger—like a foolhardy boy doing a running somersault into the deep end of the pool—almost always with Spock running behind him to watch his back and McCoy struggling to catch up, med-kit in hand for when Jim was finally done being a daredevil hero and needed fixing.

Except when the next disaster struck, McCoy wasn't there to fix it. In exchange for his help with the space walk, Jim had given him a short break from away missions; he brought M'Benga with his team instead, which included Spock, Ensign Jenkins, and that curly-haired brainiac, Ensign Chekov. But none of the ship's resident geniuses foresaw the sudden quake that shook the tiny brown planet, resulting in the rockslide that nearly got them all killed. All their prior surface readings had been sound; no one was prepared.

For days, Jim's away team was trapped behind a mess of stony rubble, and when Sulu and McCoy finally got to them, Jenkins was dead, having succumbed to head injuries that M'Benga couldn't heal with his limited supplies. Chekov was trapped under some rubble, barely surviving with a mangled leg and Spock was stoic, watching over the young navigator as best as he could.

As for Jim, he just kept vigil by Jenkins' body, which was covered with a blanket from their survival kit. McCoy was willing to bet anything that Spock had wanted to give that blanket to someone who was still, well...alive, and that Jim had fought him tooth and nail on the issue. Jim had great respect for the dead; McCoy supposed that was in the kid's blood. His face was carefully blank, normally bright eyes rendered dull and cold, hardly even flickering at the sight of their rescuers, of McCoy. The doctor couldn't tell if the blankness was something that had slowly crept over Jim with each passing day, or if he'd purposely hardened himself in the face of waning hope.

More than anything, he wanted to go to Jim. But Chekov was dying, so he went there first, tearing his gaze away from the sight of all that carefully masked horror.

Once they got back to the ship, Chekov went through some much-needed surgery and started rehabilitation, Jim sent off a condolence letter to Jenkins' family back in Chicago, and things went back to normal—as normal as they ever were on the _Enterprise_. But something was definitely off and it didn't take a genius to see that it was Jim's behavior. Outwardly, he didn't appear to be acting strangely, but McCoy could see the chips in the spit-shined façade: Jim sometimes forgot he had meetings to attend, snapped at ensigns who didn't do things correctly the first time around, and hardly ever came to see Chekov in Sickbay, when he typically made lots of time to visit his injured crewmen during their recovery periods. He also started making silly mistakes in his work. McCoy had to do a double-take when Jim's report on the botched away mission came across his desk for his sign-off; the damn thing was an utter mess, barely coherent. He commed Jim, tilting his head in slight surprise when the kid answered cheerfully.

"Kirk here. What's up, Bones?"

"Jim, I got your report here. Sure you were awake when you were writing it, kid? You usually send these over pretty clean and—"

"Well, fucking _excuse me_ if I have a goddamn ship to run, McCoy," he snapped. "Christ. If it's so bad, write it yourself. I've got to get down to engineering. Kirk out."

McCoy blinked, scowling as he ended the communication and looked at the PADD on his desk again. If Jim wasn't going to fix it, someone had to. And hell, McCoy wasn't much of an editor, but he did his best to clean it up a little, just so Jim wasn't completely at risk of a reprimand. He added a note that the captain was likely experiencing some post-traumatic shock, having watched a crewman perish before his eyes—not that it hadn't happened before, but it seemed to only get harder on Jim every time, not easier—and he recommended further treatment from his attending physician, Dr. Leonard H. McCoy.

He already had a good idea of what that treatment ought to be when he signed off on the report, and as soon as he got the go-ahead, he began to plan.

There was a bit of research involved in all of this, a few favors McCoy had to call in, but he had plenty of time; once Jim got wind of the fact that his partner had recommended psychiatric treatment, he threw a patented Kirk hissy fit and started ignoring him. And even that was fine for a couple of days, until the unmade left-hand side of their bed every morning was a sign that Jim wasn't coming back to their quarters at night—which either meant he was sleeping somewhere else, like his office, or just working himself nonstop. McCoy was inclined to believe it was the latter.

His suspicions were confirmed one night when he located Jim, with the computer's help, doing something or other in the cartography lab. McCoy entered the room and spotted Jim right away, talking to a very animated and mostly recovered Chekov. Jim was nodding blankly, obviously having some trouble paying attention to the long, endless stream of accented words coming out of the ensign's mouth, his eyes fairly bloodshot and rimmed in a red that was achingly close in color to the inside of his bottom lip.

McCoy cleared his throat, which shut Chekov up immediately; Jim just lifted his head and gave a death glare the minute he saw who it was. "Captain," McCoy said, stepping forward. "A word?"

"I've got nothing to say to you, Commander," Jim retorted, already moving away. "Chekov, good work. We'll talk later."

"Yes, sir," Chekov replied, looking bewildered. McCoy rolled his eyes, grabbing Jim by the shoulder to stop him.

" _Captain_ , your judgment is clearly impaired due to lack of sleep and I'm ordering you to get your stubborn ass back to your quarters for bed rest, pronto."

"Bones, I said, fuck _off_ ," Jim hissed. The kid wasn't himself at _all_ , because he was suddenly flinging a fist toward McCoy, the doctor only avoiding its intended path due to Jim's exhausted state. It was a lot easier than it should have been to grab Jim and hold him still as he pushed a hypospray into his neck, then to huddle his crumpled body to his chest once the sedative took effect. Jim was lighter than usual, too, and McCoy could tell he hadn't been eating much.

"D-Doctor, I—" Chekov stammered, eyes wide as he watched McCoy hoist Jim up over his shoulder. "Is the captain okay?"

"He will be," McCoy answered, heading to the doors with unconscious captain in tow. "You're looking better every day, by the way. As you were."

In the morning, McCoy made sure everything was ready before Jim woke up. He was sitting on the bed and smiling when Jim finally opened his eyes to a tray full of pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon from the replicator. He blinked and sat up carefully in bed, so as not to disturb the tray propped across his lap, then gave McCoy a wary look.

"What's all this?"

"Breakfast. Or don't you remember it after days of starving yourself?" He pushed a glass of orange juice toward Jim, who grunted in response. "Drink that, damn it. And eat, before it goes cold."

"I'm not hungry," Jim huffed. "And I lost a lot of valuable time because you put me here. I have work to do."

McCoy smirked at him. "Actually, you don't. Your first round of treatment is today and then you've got tomorrow off to catch up on rest." Jim scowled at the mention of the word _treatment_ and was about to retort when McCoy kept speaking. "First part of treatment is eating a solid breakfast to rebuild your strength. Now drink that goddamn OJ and eat those pancakes before I find a blender and a feeding tube and get it into you the hard way."

Jim was quiet for a moment before he picked up the juice and took a begrudging sip, then drank the entire glass at once. He put it down with a grateful sound, the petulant look on his face all but gone as he picked up a strip of bacon. McCoy couldn't help a small smile.

"Need a refill?" he drawled. He laughed when Jim nodded and dove into the pancakes, going back to the replicator for a fresh glass.

Jim was a lot easier to deal with once he had a meal in his stomach, and he readily agreed to McCoy's suggestion that he take advantage of their water privileges and enjoy a long, hot shower. He politely declined Jim's invitation to join him in there, and he had to hide a smile at the way that made the kid slink off like a told-off dog; he probably thought McCoy was still annoyed with him for having to go and fetch him the way he did, tranquilizer in hand. Couldn't hurt to let him think that for a little while.

Once Jim was showered, he looked halfway to decent again and McCoy sat him down on the bed. The sight of Jim in his bathrobe reminded him of their day at the spa and he smiled to himself.

"All right, Jim. We're going to start your treatment," he began, arching a brow when Jim immediately frowned. "Which you _need_ , because you've had a stressful few weeks and you're acting erratic. So it's my job to make sure you make an effort to let go and relax."

Jim perked a bit at the familiar demand. "We're not going back to that spa, are we? It's too far by now."

"No, I know." McCoy went to the edge of the bed, where Jim sat, and knelt in front of him. He reached up and skimmed his fingers over Jim's freshly shaven jaw. "But I know it helped you. So I arranged for a few hours time with the ship's anti-gravity chamber."

At those words, Jim swallowed heavily. "Anti-gravity?" he repeated.

"Yeah, Jim." He let his thumb travel further down, tracing around the rounded curve of Jim's chin, then lightly along his throat. "I know you liked it—the sensations you got from the tank, the space walk. That weightlessness, the lack of control...giving into these restrictions on what you could see, hear, feel." McCoy felt Jim shiver and when he glanced up at those full lips of his, he couldn't help but touch them, too. "It calmed you," he said quietly. He met Jim's gaze. "It aroused you."

"It...yeah," Jim breathed, not moving as McCoy explored his features with his callused fingertips. "It was good."

"I know, darlin'." McCoy brushed a kiss against the bridge of his nose. "I've only got half an idea of how tough it is to be you. And if I could do anything to make it easier on you, I would. And I know that I can do this. So, what do you say? You trust me?"

Jim paused and licked his lips nervously before nodding. "What did you have in mind?" he whispered. And at that, McCoy smiled again, getting to his feet and grabbing a supply bag, motioning for Jim to put on the tunic laid out for him.

"I'll show you," he said. "Come on."

The deck that held the anti-gravity chambers was deserted and so quiet that McCoy could clearly hear the hum of the ship all around them. He was fairly sure that the chamber was never used for anything more than simulations, but none were scheduled for today, so they had the place all to themselves. McCoy put a high-level medical security code on the door and then put his bag down on the biobed he'd arranged to have brought over earlier. He started to remove its contents as Jim looked on curiously.

"Jesus, Bones, where'd you even get all this stuff?"

"Some of it's mine," McCoy said, holding up a vibrating anal plug that he knew Jim loved well enough to recognize. "Some of it's new and one thing's on loan. I pulled some strings. Don't worry, Jim; I'll tell you what everything is in as much detail as you want."

"Well, what are these?" Jim asked, pointing to a sleek pair of gloves. McCoy picked one up and smiled.

"These are specialty gloves for folks with nervous system injuries, who've lost the ability to feel with their hands. Alternatively, they can take away feeling in the nerve endings of your hands. I borrowed them from the medical department."

Jim blinked, wide-eyed, touching one glove cautiously and then looking over at the item beside it on the bed. "And this?"

"Sensory deprivation hood. Made from a synthetic fiber that's breathable yet completely impervious to light; plus, it blocks out most common frequencies of sound. Cost me a pretty penny, but it seemed worth it." He held up a small band as well. "Also new: vibrating cock ring. Not as expensive, though."

"What the fuck?" Jim said, though the audible quickening of his breath told McCoy all he needed to know about the kid's true feelings regarding these supplies. "Do we have some kind of sex-toy dealer on the crew or something?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Jim. I just _know_ people, okay?"

"Who do you know?"

"Enough questions." McCoy sighed and kissed Jim quickly but tenderly on the lips, touching his jaw again. "You ready for this?"

Jim took a deep breath as he looked over all the supplies again, then nodded. "Yes," he said, his voice firm. McCoy wasn't surprised; when Jim Kirk decided to do something, he went for it, whole hog.

"Good." He stepped back and folded his arms over his chest. "Strip."

The tunic came off without any fanfare whatsoever and then Jim was completely naked—a little thinner than usual, McCoy noted, but still beautiful, his cock already standing at attention with the promise of things to come. McCoy positioned Jim's arms so his hands were propped and steady against the wall, then retrieved a bottle of lube from his bag, preparing Jim for the plug with the slow glide of slicked fingers. He stopped when Jim started to keen, carefully removing his hand and sliding the plug home, pressing a button so it expanded inside Jim and wouldn't fall out. God, he loved technology.

"Fuck," Jim whispered when the cock ring went on next, secured at the base of his hardened length. "Bones, this is already amazing." He looked over at the other items with some trepidation in his eyes. McCoy could tell he was nervous, but of course, he wouldn't admit it. "Sure you don't want to just fuck me over the console or something?"

"No, Jim. I know what you need and you need this. Don't be nervous." He kissed Jim's shoulder absently as he put the gloves on him, then adjusted their setting. "Here, try touching me."

Jim lifted his hand to touch McCoy's chest and made a sound of surprise. "You're right, it's—I can't feel it. It's like I'm not touching anything at all."

"Mainly so you don't get the urge to touch yourself in there," McCoy said. He grabbed a small auditory device, then—hardly bigger than a pinky thumbnail—and held it up for Jim to see. "This goes inside the hood so you can hear me when I want to speak to you. And I will, occasionally; just small things to reassure you that you're fine and I'm still here. I'm not gonna leave this room, not even for a second."

Jim's eyes were wide and trusting as he nodded, then let McCoy secure the device right at the opening to his ear canal. The doctor picked up the hood next, looking Jim in the eye before he moved closer with it.

"What?" Jim asked throatily, licking his lips.

"Just that I love you, kid." McCoy pursed his lips, feeling a sense of déjà vu as he recalled their brief chat before the space walk. "And if you want out at any time, close your right hand into a fist. I'll see it and I'll come and get you, okay?"

"Right hand, fist," Jim repeated, smiling. "Love you, too."

McCoy smiled and slipped the hood over Jim's head, sealing it tight.

The chamber that McCoy had chosen for this was shaped like a tube, with energy fields installed that would keep Jim in an upright, vertical position, and not just drag him to the ceiling. He led a trembling Jim inside, gently kissing his shoulder before he closed the chamber and went to the console. Jim appeared to be steeling himself as McCoy started pushing the necessary buttons, and directed the computer to begin the anti-gravity. When it kicked in, he watched in quiet wonder as Jim lifted up from the floor yet remained in a standing position, arms drifting skyward. The hood had been for Jim's benefit, as he'd really wanted to make the deprivation factor work. Now, McCoy wished it weren't there, so he could see the look in those wide, glassy eyes, so clear and blue as he remembered them being after the spa, the space walk. He was sure Jim looked goddamn beautiful under that hood—but this wasn't about McCoy or what he wanted. He opened the comm link and whispered very softly, knowing it was right next to Jim's vulnerable ear.

"I'm right here, Jim. You're doing so good, darlin'. Now just relax and let it take you."

Jim didn't move a muscle, yet McCoy was sure he understood. He closed the comm link and leaned back in his chair, watching avidly.

He'd brought some work with him, just in case he got bored—he was going to keep Jim in that chamber for at least a couple of hours and so far, he showed no sign of wanting to be let out—but it was difficult to look away. He was utterly transfixed and Jim wasn't even _doing_ anything—just hanging in mid-air, suspended and presumably blissed out on endorphins, unable to see, hear, smell, taste or touch unless McCoy wanted him to. Maybe in the future, if they ended up doing this again, McCoy would be less intrigued and able to use the time productively; but as it was, all he wanted to do was stare at the body he knew so well, exposed and beautiful, on display for his eyes only.

After about twenty minutes or so, McCoy tore his gaze away long enough to retrieve the controls to the devices he'd prepared earlier. He gave the cock ring a little buzz, just for two seconds or so, enough to make Jim twitch slightly. McCoy glanced up at Jim's right hand to see if it was folded or not, and nodded when he saw the fingers were as relaxed as ever. He waited a few more minutes and then turned on the vibrator in the anal plug, tuning it to a very low setting and leaving it on.

"You're my good boy, Jim," he whispered into the comm. "So relaxed. So beautiful."

Before McCoy knew it, another hour had gone by. By now, Jim's cock was smearing wetness across his stomach, flushed a deep rose from base to tip, thanks to the constant humming of the plug and the occasional vibrations of the cock ring. McCoy decided right then and there that he wasn't going to keep Jim in there any longer than two hours; he didn't want to push Jim's limits and he was starting to get uncomfortably hard himself, watching Jim float in the chamber, body pliant and mind on shutdown. McCoy palmed himself through his pants and moaned faintly, keeping his eyes squarely on Jim, whose cock was starting to twitch slightly against his stomach. He increased the vibrations of the plug and started setting off the cock ring more frequently, for longer stretches of time. It was amazing how no part of Jim appeared to respond to the stimuli, other than his cock. It was as though Jim had drifted off to a completely new galaxy.

"Jim," he whispered into the comm link, a bit raggedly now, "I'm so hard, just watching you. Can't wait to give you my cock, Jim. I'm going to fuck you so deep...you'll be so gorgeous and willing..."

Jim's cock seemed to jerk again at McCoy's words and he felt his mouth water at the sight. The scientist in him suddenly wanted to experiment, and he turned the anal plug all the way up, then started pressing the cock ring's control button in a rhythmic pattern, increasing that stimulus as well.

"Wonder if you can come for me, Jim...just like this, without a single human touch. Think you can? Such a good, beautiful boy; I bet you can. Come on, Jim, give into it. Let it all go. Come for me."

Inside the chamber, Jim's body barely moved as his cock suddenly responded to McCoy's voice and spasmed against his stomach, spurting thick streams of come. McCoy watched with his mouth agape as the ejaculate lifted up, thanks to the anti-gravity, then splashed onto Jim's chest. He grabbed the edge of the console and tried not to come in his pants at the sight; it was one of the goddamn hottest things he'd ever seen. There were still another fifteen minutes or so to go before two hours were up, but McCoy couldn't take it anymore. He got to his feet, making a beeline for the chamber's entrance.

"Computer, disengage anti-gravity program," he ordered, and the automated voice chirped back at him.

 _Disengaging in five...four...three...two...one._

Jim's body began to slowly descend as the anti-gravity lessened in the chamber, and as soon as his feet were on the ground, McCoy accessed the door and went in there, collecting him in his arms. Jim slumped against him, arms hanging heavy at his sides, and McCoy gathered him up as carefully as he could, carrying him over to the biobed that was waiting. He thanked the good lord for his own foresight, as there was no way he could wait until they got back to their quarters to have Jim. As soon as Jim was on the bed, McCoy got to work on removing the cock ring and gloves. He went to remove the hood and when it came off, he was rewarded with the sight of nearly neon blue irises, now reduced to mere rings around impossibly wide pupils.

"Jim," he whispered, unsure for a moment if Jim was actually with him or recognized him. McCoy ran his fingers through his matted hair, causing it to stick up. Jim let out a gust of air and blinked slowly. "Jim?" he repeated. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah...Bones, please..."

"Please what, Jim?" he asked. But then he realized the plug was still vibrating inside Jim, and he reached down to turn it off and remove it, very slowly. Jim let out a faint whimper when it slipped out, reaching up to clutch McCoy's bicep. His heart gave a little stutter as he readied himself for the possibility of panic. "Jim, I—what is it? Tell me."

"Fuh— _Bones_ , I need you, like you said... _please_...."

"Jesus, Jim," he groaned, already fumbling with the fastening of his pants, reaching for the bottle of lubricant from earlier. He slicked himself up in record time and then took Jim by the hips, easing him further down the biobed; McCoy could tell Jim was still woozy from the chamber, so he helped him lift and spread his legs, angling them over his shoulders. "Okay?" he asked, noting the lusty hoarseness of his own voice, and as soon as Jim nodded, he was thrusting home, burying himself in the same gorgeous body he'd just watched over for almost two hours. Jim cried out and fisted his hands in McCoy's shirt, and forget deprivation—right now, all McCoy wanted was to feel Jim, every bit of him, from the inside out, and for Jim to feel him, too.

He knew he wasn't going to last long, not after what he'd just seen, so he didn't waste time or go slow—just pounded into Jim's already stretched hole, hands curled around Jim's calves as he held them up. McCoy was damn glad that the room was soundproofed; he let himself grunt and moan as loud as he wanted, egged on by Jim's sweet and needy noises and the look in his eyes, still glassy yet flickering with light.

"S-so beautiful, Jim," McCoy whispered, running his hands down Jim's legs to his thighs. "Should've seen it...in that tank, surrendering yourself like that... _Fuck_ , touch yourself, Jim..."

"God, _Bones_!"

Jim did as McCoy said and wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking himself hard and fast, nothing languid or lazy about it at all. And soon enough, he was back on the edge, a wild look in his eyes as McCoy angled his thrusts just right, and then Jim was tensing and coming again, spilling all over his hand and stomach without a single sound. McCoy had only a second to marvel at the way Jim released, so silent, dusky rose mouth hanging open in pleasure, and then the tidal wave crashed over him as well.

And there, in that sparkling moment, plunged deep inside Jim, hands clutching for purchase of his glistening body, McCoy thought that, for once, he knew just what it was like to be Jim Kirk—every inch and atom of him yearning to feel and to _feel_ , until it threatened to completely unravel him. And when the fog cleared and he came back to the present, all that was left to see were Jim's reflective eyes, only his sweat-slicked skin to taste and to smell. Jim's steady heartbeat was all he could feel, pounding steadily under the stubble of his cheek as he listened for his voice to ground him once again.


End file.
